In an effort to embrace my inner domestic goddess, I’ve certainly taken on cooking as a new hobby. Whether forced or not, I’ve been pretty dedicated to seeking new recipes, getting creative with existing ingredients and… hopefully not as too much of a surprise, serving up some pretty good grub. I’ve wowed my new husband with strombolis, Pepperoni Pasta Sauce, perfectly grilled and seasoned chicken and much more. I’ve never disappointed, never served the same thing twice and never, never needed help at the helm.
Until last night… when all hopes and dreams of being the housewife of the year were dashed. Okay, not all hopes–and I am certainly not vying for that title. But nonetheless, last night I burned the bread. And it wasn’t just any ole bread. It was a hand-kneaded loaf of “Everything” french bread. Soft, still-warm and dressed in tangy onions, sesame seeds and poppies. It was golden, delicious (but not an apple) and the perfect foundation to my open-faced sandwiches. I had it sliced in perfect half-inch pieces, ready to crisp up and entice watering mouths …but then i forgot about it under the broiler. And the smoke alarm cried out on it’s behalf, screaming injustice for the mistreated yeast and taking no prisoners with it’s deafening, stubborn sound waves. With four people in the kitchen, we did what we could (mike on the chair fanning the alarm, blake at the back door trying to steer the smoke outdoors, and amp offering copious amounts of support and aide… me dumping eight (more than half the beautiful loaf) mercilessly neglected and charred under the irregular apartment oven burner pieces into the trash, followed by my high hopes and injured ego.
Shortly after the bread mourning had ended (does mourning over good bread gone to waste ever really come to an end?), my eyes caught yet another tragedy. Eight pieces of would-be scrumptious bacon had surpassed the intended crispy and landed in the burned borrow. Again with the neglect and ego. I relinquished the responsibilities of redoing all of the aforementioned tragedies so as to ensure we’d get to eat (and eat edible food).
This brings me to my next newlywed question of life… How do you handle one million things happening at once? Pouring (and enjoying) wine, entertaining visitors, catching up on the weekend’s stories, toasting bread, grilling chicken, frying bacon, slicing tomatoes, grinding pepper, shaking salt, squeezing lemon, setting the table, washing the dishes and making sure that you remembered to set the recording for The Bachelorette? I think I burned something else just now, just typing it.
My own conclusion (and one Amp and I learned years ago) is that our life is never short of a dull moment. If no one died, got hurt or went to bed hungry, then we may as well chalk it up as a success. Plus, as icing on the cake–or in the case, I guess the mayo on the sandwich–was that the smorgasbord that this recipe became was actually delicious! Teamwork sometimes proves the best work and my effort to be a hip-to-it housewife is satiated by the promise of willing second-in-commands, aka, great friends and a forgiving husband!